


Electrifying Surge of Inappropriate Feelings

by Lilyliegh



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Innuendo, M/M, mechanic AU, this was both a sin and a blessing to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 18:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13129524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilyliegh/pseuds/Lilyliegh
Summary: Bakura keeps bringing in gifts to Malik's work, which would be sentimental and all if only Bakura could be quiet or polite, or not bring in such suspicious presents.





	Electrifying Surge of Inappropriate Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> written for the thiefshipping dirty santa game. my prompt was "Suprise, that asshole neighbor making all the noise is actually that crush from (school/work/the coffee shop- writers choice on how they know each other". the prompt really got away from me though, so all these details are in the fic ... somewhere. 
> 
> thank you to [Sitabethel](http://sitabethel.tumblr.com/) for hosting this game, and to [Poppy](https://imgettingtoooldforthisship.tumblr.com/)/[ImGettingTooOldForThisShip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ImGettingTooOldForThisShip/pseuds/ImGettingTooOldForThisShip) for being my lovely beta!

“Why are you here?”

Bakura leans forward on the counter, white hair tickling the countertop. Malik has to lean back against the opposite counter, one hand on the cash register in case Bakura does try to make a snatch for it. He never has before, but the things Bakura can do with his hands – make things disappear, not the other thing – is worrying at best. If Bakura is some kind of pseudo-magician, Malik does not want to see the mechanic shop’s earnings disappear.

Of course, when Malik leans back, that only makes Bakura lean in closer. He drags his fingers along the counter, but keeps his head forward and his striking, blue eyes on Malik. His white hair fluffs out around his face, both angular and smooth depending on the expression he makes. Currently he’s got his cheeks puffed out like a toddler.

“Candles, just like I told you.”

Malik sighs, but does not remove his hand from the register. “This is a mechanic shop. We don’t sell candles here.”

With a great, dramatic heave that seems to come from his toes, Bakura throws himself backwards on his heels and nearly falls into the shelf of windshield wiper fluid behind him. Malik’s free hands snatches out to grab Bakura’s shirt, but he reels himself back just as he realises Bakura is playing a trick on him. Unfortunately, with his hand out, Bakura seizes the opportunity: he high-fives Malik and makes the sound ricochet around the building.

Malik snatches his hand back, cheeks flaming. “What are you doing here?”

Bakura has the gall to feign innocence. His lips purse, cheeks softening as he sucks in a deep breath. Then he shrugs. “No clue.”

“Well get out,” Malik says. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his work jeans, only they’re a bit tight and he can only get his fingers in.

Bakura notices.

Bakura comments: “Pants too tight?” He chuckles, a sound that grates like nails on a chalkboard. “How do you even  _ breathe  _ in those?”

Malik’s cheeks darken, but instead of snapping he holds himself back and glowers at the ground. “Just buy something or get out.” Were he at his apartment – and Bakura at his, the damn man is his  _ neighbour  _ – Malik might have caused a louder row. However, the security cameras over his head would catch him making a scene; or worse, Bakura would complain to his manager. At work, Malik has to remain professional.

But oh how he loathes it. Bakura is the most insufferable customer and neighbour Malik has ever met. 

While Malik stands at the register with his head bowed, Bakura peruses down the aisles. He’s given up on pestering Malik now; through his white-blond bangs, Malik sees Bakura picking up everything on the shelf, tossing it from hand to hand, and then putting it back down. He doesn’t seem to be looking for anything; the previous times Bakura has come into the shop he hasn’t bought anything either … might have stolen something though. Malik wouldn’t put it past Bakura.

After a minute, it seems safe enough for Malik to raise his head and continue on with his job. He moves to the edge of the counter and begins arranging the fliers he was putting together – adding coupons, folding the brochures together; menial tasks that take little energy. Later on he’ll be working in the garage, but at the moment he’s covering the shop floor while someone’s on break.

Not that that would stop Bakura. Even when Malik’s in the garage, Bakura will sneak into the workplace and pester him for advice on how to fix bikes. He thinks he knows as much about motorbikes as Malik does, yet Bakura doesn’t even know how to change oil or pump a tire. The only thing Bakura’s hands are good at is swiping personal belongings off people –

Wait.

Malik’s hands dart to keyring that he uses to open the register when it’s jammed, or to open the shop doors. 

Over his head, he hears jingling. Bakura may be shorter than Malik, but in a flash he’s climbed atop the counter, and he holds the keys a bit over Malik’s blond head. Between Bakura's thin, pale fingers is the keyring.

“That took you  _ way  _ too long to find,” Bakura says. He jangles the keys once more. “You really should keep an eye on your –”

Malik snatches them right out of thin air with a guttural growl. “Those aren’t yours –”

“No, they’re yours,” Bakura says, “and it looks like you misplaced them.”

Malik clicks them back onto his belt and shoves them into the tight pocket of his jeans. This pair of pants is so skin-tight that he should have felt the keys leave his pocket. How did Bakura even manage to get his hands there? How did Malik not feel the lack of weight and pressure against his thigh?

“You really should be more careful with your belongings.”

“You  _ stole  _ them.”

Bakura raises both hands in defense, cheeks puffing out and small, pink lips creating an ‘o’ shape. The innocent expression looks terrible on a wolf like him. “Dear me,” Bakura says, shooting his voice up to an embarrassingly high falsetto, “how could you accuse a faithful customer of stealing?”

“You’ve never even bought anything before,” Malik says. “You’re not a customer – you’re a nuisance. Get out.”

Malik knows that will never happen. Bakura tunes out rationality far too often.

With a gusty sigh, Bakura throws himself back towards the counter, almost face-planting into the wooden surface before he catches himself with his hands. He  _ grins  _ back up at Malik, thin face split to show two rows of pointed teeth. “And the verbal abuse continues,” he says. He sticks a hand under his chin to hold up his face, fingers cradling the point of his chin. Bakura’s face has become all sharp corners now. Bakura is also  _ close,  _ and Malik thinks it best not to step back in case Bakura throws himself over the counter.

“Can I help you?” Malik says. “Really, I’m working.”

“I believe you,” Bakura says. Then, quick as a wit: “But I think I’m the only one here.”

Were someone else here, Malik definitely would have been begging them to take his assistance – anything to get away from Bakura.

“Besides,” Bakura continues, “I already told you: I’m looking for candles.”

“We don’t sell those here.”

Another dramatic, pointless sigh. “Well where do you get them?”

Malik raises an eyebrow. “That’s … what you came here for?”

“And to see your pretty face.”

Malik wheels back, both cheeks flaming so bright that he throws up a hand to shield himself. This, of course, makes Bakura falls back in laughter, once more narrowly avoiding colliding with a shelf behind him. Bakura sobers first though and comes right back to the counter like a pest that won’t stay away. 

“You think I’d walk all the way out here just to see you?”

_ It’s like five minutes away,  _ Malik thinks. However, Bakura won’t leave unless Malik gives him something. He’s gotta bribe away Bakura. Sighing, Malik pulls out a sheet of paper from beneath the counter and scribbles down an address. “The grocery store is two blocks down and to the left. There should be candles there – whatever kind you’re looking for, I’m sure they have it.” He pushes the paper to Bakura. “That’s all I can help you with,  _ sir.  _ Have a good day.”

Bakura grabs the paper between two fingers and tosses it up into the air, catching it once more between the same two fingers and flourishing it for Malik to see. He gives a little jump and a smile that puts traitorous butterflies in Malik’s stomach. Then, still grinning, Bakura salutes him. “Have a good day, Malik.”

“Goodbye.”

Malik watches the door closed with a relieved breath. Every. Damn. Day. Bakura comes to his work, morning or afternoon, rain or shine. He always seems to know when Malik works, even though Malik tells him nothing. It’s like Bakura has a radar that can track Malik down no matter where he is in the city.

“Good grief,” Malik mutters. He taps his pockets to make sure that the keys haven’t been stolen again – they haven’t – and then he returns to putting together the monthly fliers. Thankfully, the saving grace about Bakura’s presence is that time passes by quicker when he’s around. He’s a headache to deal with, but sure enough when Malik checks the clock it’s been well over an hour. Soon, Malik will be able to head to the garage and tune up some of the new bikes that have been brought in.

Bakura and bikes … Both make his work day pass by faster.

The difference is that Malik likes the bikes. Ever since he was a child, he liked working with hands and fixing things. No one in his town had a motorbike, but on TV he would watch racing programs of dirt bikes and motorbikes. When he got older, he turned that passion into a work opportunity and became an apprentice to a mechanic. Ever since then, Malik’s worked with bikes. He is good with his hands in better, more legal ways than Bakura. Malik likes the sound of bikes. He likes taking them apart and building them back up. Even working on the shop floor is exciting when he can give tips and advice to newbie riders.

Thus, the day flows by. Malik moves from the shop floor to the garage floor. He gets himself covered head to toe in oil and grease and sweat. The day sweeps him off his feet so he doesn’t even realise it’s closing time until a co-worker kneels down, goes to pat him on the back, holds off, and then says, “The day’s over.”

Malik glances over his shoulder, noting the woman’s hand quivering awkwardly in the air. Malik claps it and pulls himself to his feet.

“Thanks, Mai.”

“No problem,” she says. 

They both hurry to the sink where they wash the oil off with special soap. There are still a couple of grease smudges on Malik’s face, but he ignores them. He yanks his hair out of its ponytail and shakes his head. The blond locks hang around his face; with a clean hand he brushes them back and lets his bangs fall around his sharp face and piercing, purple eyes.

Next to him, Mai smirks. “That friend of yours is waiting for you.”

Malik stiffens. Mai knows his siblings, and neither of them are in town this week. She could only be referring to one unfortunate person.

Mai cracks her knuckles. “Need me to crack some heads?” she jokes. “That guy makes you so stiff.”

Now Malik’s cheeks are red – yet again – and he glowers at her. “No, that’s fine,” he says. “I can deal with him on my own.”

Mai shrugs. “Suit yourself. Have a good night.” She skips across the garage and heads through the employee entrance and exit. It’s a door on the side of the building, out of the way from the regular entrance, but thankfully not in any shady back-alley. Of course, Bakura found this entrance the first time he followed Malik to his work. Without a doubt Bakura is there waiting for him. Malik considers exiting from the regular entrance in the hopes that Bakura won’t catch him until he’s home.

That would just look embarrassing though.

He doesn’t have to make a decision right away though. He glances around the dim garage, at the bikes propped up by hydraulic lifts and other ones taken apart on the floor. There are tool benches both along the walls and wheeled into the centre of the space. Everyone has their favourite workstation; Malik’s is the far left, away from the door to the shop floor. There’s a little window by Malik’s station that he glances through whenever he feels a bit too cramped in his workspace. Sometimes Malik even takes his work outdoors where he can think in the open air. Sunshine helps clear his mind and focus his thoughts.

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

Malik wanders through the garage, breathing in the smell of gasoline and fresh paint. He no longer gets headaches from the smell, though wearing a mask here does help. His black coveralls keep him cool and help him twist and bend while he works. Here, in the clean, bright garage, Malik feels at peace.

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

Malik closes his eyes, takes one more deep breath, and then glances to the window –

“What the  _ hell,  _ Bakura!”

In the window, smushed against one of the dirty panes, is Bakura’s face. As soon as they lock eyes though, Bakura’s fingers slip under the window, which hadn’t been closed all the way, and Bakura’s pale hand comes shooting through. His head soon follows – a mass of fluffy, white hair fanning out around a jovial,  _ shit-eating  _ grin.

“Are you gonna leave soon? I’ve been out here for a while.”

Malik’s hand collides with his own face. “Go home,” he says, spitting out the words like they’re foul candy in his mouth. 

“But we’re both going the same way. Wouldn’t it make sense for us to walk together?” As an afterthought, Bakura stretches his other hand through the window and holds out a clear plastic bag for Malik. “Found the candles too.”

“Congratulations.” 

A pause. “Get out, Malik. We’re going home.”

“Wait for me then.”

Malik closes his eyes and takes another breath. When he’s ready to leave, he changes out of his coveralls into his tight jeans and t-shirt, and pulls on his winter parka even though it’s mid-autumn and Bakura is probably outside in a t-shirt. Then, when Malik is ready, he slips through the door.

The first sight he sees is the sun, just beginning to dip in the sky and creating a pastel of pinks and yellows fluttering like butterflies through the horizon. The skylight breaks off where the buildings begin – tall, imposing structures shadowed by the sunset. The road winds up and down through the city. There is just enough of a breeze for Malik’s hair to dance around his cheeks.

Bakura comes sauntering around the corner a moment later, trademark smirk on his lips. His cheeks are rosy from being outside and he has his hands comfortably tucked into the pockets of his jeans. No jacket, naturally. His way of greeting is a grunt and a “Took you long enough,” that Malik ignores as he brushes by and towards his – their – apartment complex. Bakura follows him.

The garage and bike shop is just a hop and a skip down from Malik’s apartment. The road he walks down every day is a wide sidewalk crowded with people. Malik keeps himself to the wall and prays that he won’t be squished. He doesn’t like busy city life, but it’s where work has taken him. Weaving through people is a daily chore of Malik’s. He’s careful not to brush shoulders with anyone, keeping himself rigid yet pliable.

Behind him, Bakura moves like an invisible eel. He weaves in and out of the crowds, never once bumping into someone. At times, Malik loses Bakura in the corners of his eyes, only for Bakura to pop back up not a moment later right next to Malik. Sometimes Bakura is a ghost next to Malik.

Until he speaks up, that is.

“Want a candle?”

“No.”

“They’re for you anyways.”

“I don’t want them.”

Bakura groans and throws himself forward, miraculously not colliding with a pedestrian walking in the opposite direction. He groans once more. “You’re telling me I wasted all this money then?”

“I’m surprised you even bought it,” Malik says. He glances out of the corner of his eye, watching how Bakura is grinning through his long, white bangs. Malik shrugs. “You didn’t steal those ones?”

“It’s not stealing if you use someone else’s money,” Bakura says.

Malik’s hand flies to his wallet, tucked inside his work backpack. He had that backpack in the staff room where no one could swipe it. Then again, the feats Bakura can pull off with his hands … He could’ve stolen money from Malik’s wallet.

Bakura chuckles though, a cheery giggle that shouldn’t come from someone so menacing. He even tosses his head back and straightens up. He’s a bit shorter than Malik, but he’s gangly – skin and bones and long, monkey-like limbs that help him weasel his way into tight spaces. 

“Not your money,” Bakura says. “Someone at the shop was being careless with their pocket change, and so I offered to help them out. The poor man just dropped all his change on the ground, and the wonderful me, being the benevolent samaritan that I am, couldn’t just step by –”

“So you stole some unfortunate guy’s money?” Malik sighs noisily. “What kind of answer are you expecting from me? A laugh? A growl?”

“I want you to take the damn candles.” Reaching into his bag, Bakura holds out a long, violet candle. There are bits of gold twisting and turning around the cylinder, ending at the point at the top where Malik realises it makes a star shape. Like lightning, Bakura flips the candle around to show him that there is, in fact, a gold star at the bottom. 

Malik’s eyebrows smush into his forehead. “What … do you want me to do with candles?”

Bakura raises his own eyebrow. “Normally, you burn them, though I suppose they’re just the right width –”

“Fine, fine! Give me that bag. I’ll burn them for you.”

Faithfully, Bakura hands the bag over to Malik. Malik can now peek inside. There are at least a half-dozen candles, all different shapes and sizes and colours that remind him of a mixed box of crayons. There’s also a small bag of tealights. Malik doesn’t have tealight holders. He’s not even sure what to do with candles, but if it gets Bakura out of his hair Malik will take the candles home. Maybe he’ll give them to Isis when she next stops by. 

When Malik looks up, he realises he’s at the steps to his apartment building … er, his and Bakura’s. Different rooms though. That’s an important detail.

The apartment is semi-tall, looming over quaint shops but swamped by the gigantic, office skyscrapers. There’s some moulding and stone that makes it look aged in a nice way, similar to when you walk into a beautifully historic building. There are six stone steps leading up to glass doors that then open into a large lobby dressed in all shades of mahogany. The plush carpet sinks down as Malik steps into the room. He heads right to the elevator with Bakura hard on his heels.

“You don’t have anywhere else to be?” Malik says over his shoulder.

Bakura shrugs. “Not really.” He smacks his lips together, thinking for barely a second before he blurts out, “You should light those tonight.”

“Why?” Malik says. 

“Because I’m summoning spirits tonight and those are my ritual candles.”

Malik looks inside the bag. He doesn’t know much about rituals of any kind, but he imagines the candles you use for them aren’t basic grocery store candles in every colour of the rainbow. 

“Whatever,” Malik says. 

“I’m just saying you might hear some noises tonight,” Bakura continues. “Nothing to be alarmed, just hell itself rising from the ashes of the dead to wreak havoc on the mundane world. No biggie.”

When Malik first moved in, Bakura talked at length about summoning spirits and demons to destroy humanity. It freaked Malik out; now though, he just rolls his eyes and steps out of the elevator, paying Bakura no attention. Malik’s room is in the middle of the hallway, with Bakura’s apartment just to his right.

“Don’t be alarmed – the spirits won’t kill you.”

Malik holds the door open for a second. “Good,” he says, and slams the door closed. 

Then … silence. His apartment is quiet solitude, only disturbed by the hum of the cars and pedestrians below, and by Malik’s even breaths. He leans against the door for a moment, letting his weary body hang and flop, before he kicks off his shoes and stumbles across his room. He faceplants into his loveseat, the only piece of furniture he owns. Just behind him is the kitchen, which isn’t much more than a couple counters, a fridge, and a stove. He has two cabinets for the three sets of dishes and silverware that he owns – just enough for when his siblings come to visit.

The silence of his apartment used to bother him. It was too quiet, too lonely. Malik longed to hear the wind or the city noise, and voices that would speak Arabic to him. Over time, it’s gotten easier to find peace with Japanese voices and the sounds of city traffic. 

_ Thud! _

And, considering how much noise Bakura makes in his apartment, Malik has begun to find peace with the silence.

Malik groans loudly when he hears another  _ thud!  _ He has complained time and time again to the building manager that Bakura makes too much noise doing who knows what in his room. However, no one else on the floor has heard Bakura before. No one else seems to hear the crashes and bangs that come at all hours of the day and night.

_ How can one person make so much noise?  _ Malik thinks to himself. He snatches a throw pillow from the couch and covers his head with it. For a second, there is silence – and then the thudding returns with a vengeance that pushes Malik to stand. He stomps across the room, not caring if the tenants below him hear his steps, and stands at the wall between his and Bakura’s apartments. Japanese apartments already have paper-thin walls – how can only Malik hear this racket?

He bangs on the wall twice, and then presses his lips to it. “Be quiet,” he says. Bakura has ears like a hawk; he’ll hear him.

“Make me,” comes the voice from the other side, low and deep. Malik swallows. Bakura’s voice … can go that low?

Malik hits the wall with a fist. “Keep it down. No one wants to hear you.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one that can hear me.”

Malik stomps away, huffing. He hears two more bangs against the wall, coming from Bakura’s apartment, before silence. Malik holds his breath, waiting for another noise to spike his nerves up higher than they already are. However, no noise comes through. 

After a minute, Malik lets out a breath. He pours himself a glass of juice and grabs a granola bar from the fridge, easy snacks that will tide him over until he can think about what he’d like for dinner. Back against the counter, he glances around the apartment. The candles are on the couch, taunting him. Just what is Malik supposed to do with scented candles? Light them, he supposes … but why?

Malik hurries back to grab them. He pulls them all out of the bag and lines them up on his coffee table. They all smell rather good – most of them fruit- or spice-scented – and they’re large enough that they could burn for days. 

Outside, the sun has just dipped under the horizon. All the lights are on in Malik’s house, but it would be nice to light a candle too.

Decided, Malik grabs the matches from the kitchen drawer and lights two of his new candles: the purple one with the gold star that Bakura was tossing around on the walk home, and a white and blue striped peppermint candle that smells heavenly. Just before he lights it, Malik presses his nose to it and inhales. It smells like the peppermint oil that he has in his bathroom, used for treating muscle pains and skin itchiness.

_ Thud! _

This time, the sound doesn’t come from Bakura’s apartment; it comes from Malik’s, namely from his door that is now wide-open. Bakura stands in the doorway, triumphantly smirking at Malik with his nose buried in the blue and white candle.

“I knew that was your favourite!” he crows.

“Get out!”

* * *

Malik watches the garage door like a hawk. He just knows that Bakura will come by sometime today. It could be any time; Bakura is never consistent. After Malik kicked Bakura out of his house last night, there was something about Bakura’s smile that seemed a bit too devilish. He looked sly, and that sets Malik on edge. He’s not worried about getting Bakura out of the garage – that’s impossible and Bakura will see himself out whenever he’s ready – but that Bakura might come with something  _ more  _ than candles. 

_ That was weird.  _ Bakura normally shows up with food, sometimes vegetarian, often not. He’s come by once before with something not-food-related and Malik had been wholly embarrassed by the … size of the item. Yesterday was the first day though that Bakura showed up with something normal and non-edible. 

_ That was just one time, right? _

Malik wants to trust himself on this. He wants to believe that the candles were just a spur-of-the-moment decision, just like all of Bakura’s plans and ideas tend to be. 

Yet there is a sneaking, terrifying thought that perhaps Bakura might come back today with  _ something else,  _ and that something else could be even weirder than buying your neighbour scented candles.

Malik doesn’t have long to think about it. He hears the  _ tap-tap-tap  _ of footsteps, then a pause, then behind him (wait, weren’t those steps coming from the front door?) someone says, “Yo.” Malik spins around so fast that he’s dizzy and disoriented for a moment, and when he shakes his head he sees Bakura standing by the back door – the employee entrance, mind you. What has Malik staring is what Bakura is wearing – tight, black skinny jeans and a bomber jacket that vaguely looks like Malik’s … probably is too …

“How do you  _ work  _ in these?” Bakura groans.

Malik pauses. “Pardon?” he says.

Bakura grabs at a fistful of his jeans, only they don’t stretch and he only succeeds in scratching his nails along the material. “These,” he says. “These tight,  _ tight  _ jeans that you can’t even exhale in without worrying about popping a button.”

They are … tight. Very much so. Hugging Bakura’s calves and thighs and hips so that Malik can see the juts of his bones. Bakura bounces his legs up and down, and when he catches Malik looking he spreads his legs wide to show just  _ how  _ the material adheres to his skin. Malik feels his cheeks grow hot. Then he spots, on the side of the jeans, a label – 

“A-are those mine?” Malik says.

_ “Yes,”  _ Bakura says, “and I don’t know how you get your legs into these if I’m smaller than you –”

“How did you get those?” Malik pinches his lips together. “How the  _ hell  _ do you manage to get into my apartment, into my  _ room –” _

“You had them lying on the back of the couch last night,” Bakura says, shrugging. “When I came to check up on you and the candles –”

“You mean broke into my house –”

“– I borrowed them.” Bakura shrugs, then grimaces. “I regret my decision though and will be returning them tonight, unless you have pants at work I can switch into.”

Malik sighs, but the sound comes out a bit strangled in his dry throat. He swipes his water bottle off of the wheeling tool bench next to him and takes a sip, ignoring Bakura’s outstretched hand demanding he have a drink too. When he’s done, Malik wipes at his lips with his wrist and says, “I’m not lending you any clothes. It’s your fault for trying them on.”

“Again, I thought they would fit better on me.” Bakura sniffs, and then grins. “But that’s not why I came here, seeing as how I could have just broken into your house and changed out of these hellish pants. I need something from your shop.”

“You probably don’t,” Malik says. 

“Wires.” Bakura holds out his hands, measuring about a foot or two. “I need wires. And lightbulbs. This is the place to go, right?”

Malik sets the water bottle back down on the tool bench and returns to work. The bike he’s working on today needs its oil refilled and some work done on the wiring of the brakes. None of this requires Malik’s full attention, but giving Bakura even an iota of attention just makes him needy and whiny, and more than anything Malik wants Bakura out of the garage and out of Domino City. Somehow, both of those wishes are impossible.

Just as Malik reaches out to adjust some wires, something bumps into his arm – not his back, thank goodness, but his upper arm. Malik shivers at the touch because he knows just what he’s touching – Bakura’s leg, nothing else – and he doesn’t want to look at the cat-like grin Bakura must be giving him.

“Move. I’m working.”

The pants are way too thin. Malik can feel the heat of Bakura’s skin against his arm, and it’s only making Malik more hot and flustered and bothered. Why does Bakura have to come here?

“I said I need help. That is your job – helping me, right?”

“No,” Malik says, “I’m in the garage today. Go ask the attendant up from. It’s her job to help customers.”

“But I’m not just any customer,” Bakura says, leaning into Malik’s arm. “And I really want  _ you  _ –”

“Enough,” Malik pushes himself away from the bike and glowers up at Bakura. His face is split in a shit-eating grin that shows his bright, sharp teeth. “What do you need light bulbs and wire for? What are you even making?”

“That’s – a – secret,” Bakura singsongs. “Beesides, how rude of you to demand what I need it for. You don’t expect customers to tell you the private details of their lives, do you?”

Malik rolls his eyes. “If this is a private matter, Bakura, I don’t want anything to do with it.” He stands up, dusting off his coveralls and pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “If you’re going to be weird about it, I can’t help you. Tell me what you need it for, I’ll get it for you, and then you will  _ leave.” _

“You want me out of your hair already?” Bakura says. Then, quick as a whip, he says: “I need thin wire – small, smaller than what’s on that bike. And I need a lightbulb.”

“I don’t have that here. Go to the electronics store.”

Bakura is stubborn though. “Then fine. What do you have here that works?”

“I don’t even know …” Malik heads over to the back counter where there are hundreds of boxes of spare parts and tools. He pulls out several different sized threads of wires, and from the boxes he grabs a couple different sizes of lightbulbs. These parts are all meant for bikes. Whatever Bakura is planning on doing with these, none of this seems usable for DIY stuff. Nonetheless, Malik holds it out for Bakura to see. “Wire and bulbs. Pick what you’d like and bring it to the attendant up front. Don’t steal this.”

From within the pile Bakura pulls out a length of black wire, semi-thick, and one light bulb meant for the small lights of a pedal-bike. He flips both of them back and forth in his hands, and then chuckles at Malik. “I would never steal from your store – you guys need the money too badly.”

“Wonderful to know that’s your reason.”

Bakura smiles. His eyes flitter up to the clock hanging on the wall above the door. “Look at the time – doesn't it just fly by when I’m around?”

_ Yeah, it does,  _ Malik thinks.

“It’s almost closing-up time, isn’t it?”

Malik nods, then stills himself. Bakura … will want to walk home again. He’ll linger around the store until Malik is ready to go, and then he’ll trod after Malik. Whatever he plans on making with the light bulb and wire might come up during the walk, and any plans Bakura has Malik wants nothing to do with them. He made that mistake once, early on in their … relationship as neighbours. Never again.

“Besides,” Bakrua says, “I need to work on this project of mine anyways, and what better place to do it than at your shop.”

“You’re not even supposed to be back here.”

“Trivial matters.”

Malik can’t argue further. He returns to his work, and thankfully Bakura quietly works on whatever project he’s brought along with him. From time to time Malik peeks over his shoulder and checks up on Bakura. Bakura yanks open and slams closed drawers, pulling out electric tape. He toys with different tools and scissors that he shouldn’t need for a small-scale project, but Malik doesn’t care if Bakura chops off his finger. He’s a legal adult – he’ll do dumb shit if he wants to.

And, to Malik’s grace, Bakura is quiet when he’s working. He tinkers with his DIY project at the desk, and Malik adjusts the brakes on the bike and fills the oil. When he’s done, minutes before his shift is over, he dusts off his hands and stands up to admire his handiwork. The bike is a snazzy red beaut, the kind of bike Malik would have bought if he had a couple million yen to bust –

“Wouldn’t you want to wrap your legs around that –”

Malik whirls around. “Shut it.” He blinks when he notices that Bakura is standing at least two feet away from him; his voice had sounded like his lips were right next to Malik’s ear. However, unless Bakura has a neck the length of a giraffe he couldn’t have possibly been standing so close to Malik. Besides, Bakura knows where he is and is not supposed to stand. He wouldn’t go anywhere near Malik’s back, even though all that Malik has told him is that he injured himself during his youth and chronic pain is a bitch.

Bakrua has never asked further questions.

Glancing down, Malik spots Bakura’s handiwork. It looks messy, hastily put together with electric tape … but it’s glowing. There are batteries at the bottom, taped together. Then there’s wire running from the bottom of one battery up to a little lightbulb that Bakura tapes to the other end of the batteries; again, tape is excessively wrapped around every inch of the project. From the little bulb a warm, yellow light glows. The garage is so bright that Malik suspects that, were this light outdoors, it might work as a flashlight.

“A … flashlight?” Malik says, raising an eyebrow. “This was your private matter?”

“Very private,” Bakura says, hugging the flashlight close to his chest. “I slaved over this, poured by very being into this handiwork –”

“We’ve been working for ten minutes –”

“Anyways!” Bakura shoves the flashlight into Malik’s chest. Malik’s hands fumble to hold onto it before he drops it and the glass bulb shatters all over the ground. He holds it to his own chest, gazing down at the warm light against his coveralls. It’s surprisingly bright.

“Why?” Malik doesn’t let go of the flashlight, but he shakes it in one hand. “Why are you giving me this?”

Bakura shrugs. He spins on his heels, and points to the clock over the door. “Shift’s over – come on, we’re going home.”

Normally, Malik would make a fuss about Bakura telling him what to do, and about Bakura being in the garage in the first place and not leaving when he’s supposed to. However, he doesn’t. The warm light on his chest catches anything nasty that he dare say to Bakura. 

_ What … just happened?  _

He doesn’t have time to dwell on the thoughts though. Malik hurries to the staff room to collect his belongings, and he changes out of his coveralls and back into his regular attire. In the mirror he zips up his parka all the way to his chin and yanks on his mittens and hat – essential outdoor gear for the autumn weather. When he peeks around the corner, flashlight brandished like a weapon, Bakura is at the employee entrance door.

“Like your new toy?”

Malik huffs and steps through the doorway without a glance at Malik.

“You could say ‘thank you,’, you know.”

“When have you ever said those words?” 

Bakura grins. “When have I ever gotten a present?”

It sounds a bit sad, and Malik regrets the single, choked laugh he makes. “True,” he says. Then, coughing once to clear his throat, he adds, “Where’d you learn to make this? I doubt you grew up making DIY projects.”

They descend down the main path, bordered once more by pedestrians milling through the urban centre. Malik keeps himself close to Bakura in case they get separated. The little flashlight in his hands illuminates the sidewalk. From time to time Malik holds the flashlight out to light up more of the street. It has surprisingly good strength and range for something made out of random parts at the garage.

“No,” Bakura says, “I found a YouTube video.”

“Figures.”

Bakura reaches out to grab the light, but Malik yanks it back, pressing it close to his chest in case Bakura – or anyone else on the street – makes a swipe for it. 

“Possessive, aren’t we?”

Malik growls deep within his throat. “I thought you said this is  _ mine.” _

“True, but then again big boys share.”

“You’re insufferable.” Malik twists the flashlight around in his hands. Then he holds it right up to Bakura’s face – not to blind him, though that is an added bonus, but to chase all the shadows away on Bakura’s face. Malik can see his blue eyes and white teeth, and the porcelain glow to his skin. “… thanks.”

Bakura laughs outright. He pushes the light back into Malik’s face, effectively blinding Malik for a moment before he can tug the light down to his chest. “How mighty kind of you,” Bakura says.

Bakura’s gaze has this effect on Malik, the kind where his cheeks go pink and his stomach drops and he feels hot all over. He stares down at his feet, refusing to meet Bakura’s gaze. Fortunately, they’re at the doorstep to the apartment now, and Malik can rush inside out of the cold and frigid air. He stomps his boots clean and then heads to the elevator; Bakura meets him there, grinning like a cat.

Malik says nothing.

The ride up is silent, as is the walk to their apartment. At Malik’s doorway, he hears something go  _ thunk!  _ too close to his head, and he glances up.

Bakura’s fist. Against the doorframe.  _ Very  _ close to Malik’s face.

“Take care of that toy – it’s breakable.”

Malik’s eyes flick towards the flashlight, still emitting its gentle light all around the hallway. His grip tightens on it. “It’s not a toy.”

Conversation done, Malik steps through the doors and slams the door closed. His apartment lights are always on, but this time, with the light in his hand, Malik thinks that perhaps he could turn the lights off for once. He won’t now, just in case the flashlight isn’t enough to chase the shadows out of the world, but if Malik came home … and the lights were off … and he had the flashlight. Well, it might have been OK.

He carries the flashlight with him through the house, pointing it at anywhere where the slightest shadow might form. Like a magic wand, the flashlight banishes the darkness away. Malik feels like a god holding the strongest weapon in the world. He casts his spells around his room until the entire apartment has been purified with the light of the flashlight. Then, exhausted, he tosses himself onto the couch, facing the ceiling.

On his chest, the flashlight still glows.

Now that Malik can see it closely, he spots how Bakura has wound the tape around the device to make it sturdier. The wire is even tucked into the tape so that it wouldn’t catch somewhere. Bakura’s messy handiwork has actually helped the flashlight stay together.

Malik turns his head. Sitting on the coffee table are the scented candles, still lined up in a row. 

Malik hops to his feet in search of matches. He lights the purple and blue candles, and then settles back down on the couch to watch them. The flames no longer worry him – while dangerous and painful, fire is light. Fire is  _ good. _

He rests his head along the arm of the couch, cradling the flashlight to his chest. His eyes grow heavy watching the dance of the flames. The last thing Malik remembers seeing before he falls asleep is the light of the candles; the last thing he feels is the warmth of the flashlight against his chest.

* * *

Malik doesn’t have to wait for Bakura today. 

No, Malik steps out of his front door at seven in the morning, holding a cup of chai tea, and nearly hits Bakura who’s planted himself smack in the middle of the hallway. Malik stumbles back, surprised, not even awake at this hour, and rubs his eye just in case he might be seeing a nightmare. He isn’t. Bakura is there, in the flesh,  _ right in Malik’s personal space. _

“W-what are you even doing here?” 

Bakura points at his door, grinning ear to ear. “I do live next door, you know that?”

“What are you doing outside  _ my door then?” _

Bakura’s grin only grows wider, like a wolf smiling at his prey … only Malik isn’t prey and if Bakura dares make a move on him before he’s finishing his tea Malik will be sucker-punching Bakura into the wall. It doesn’t matter how many gifts Bakura has brought him. Malik can’t get a read on Bakura and that is  _ worrying. _

“Answer me.”

Bakura shrugs. “I don’t think I need a reason to be out in the hallway. I live here too.”

“You were outside my door.” Malik sighs noisily. “Actually, nevermind. I need to go to work. Goodbye.”

Malik steps away and heads down the hallway. Not a second later he hears footsteps behind him that sound like elephants. Bakura only walks quietly when he’s stealing something; if he wants his presence to be heard, he’ll make a headache-inducing racket.

This time though, Malik doesn’t give in. He remains mute the entire ride down the elevator, silent through the front doors. He walks straight to work without even a glance over his shoulder. Even when Bakura chooses to walk next to him, brushing Malik’s upper shoulder, Malik doesn’t glance. He won’t give Bakura the satisfaction. Malik would much prefer thinking about the candles and flashlight he fell asleep to.

Speaking of those …

Would Bakura knows that Malik slept by candlelight? Bakura does tend to know what’s going on in Malik’s life. He must have peepholes in the wall or something. But Bakura doesn't say anything, keeping in line with Malik until they arrive at the front of the garage. There’s a hand painted sign that greets them, and large windows. The garage is just to the side, doors wide open. 

Bakura hasn’t stopped following Malik. Malik considers shooing Bakura off, but then that would be giving into to Bakura’s silent pestering.

Malik doesn’t want that.

He heads round the back of the building to the employee entrance. As soon as he’s through the door, he slams it behind him –

Bakura catches it in one hand, nails scratching against the metal frame. 

“Leave,” Malik snaps. He’s had enough with Bakura for one day. Besides, Malik’s day hasn't even begun and Bakura's already chosen to intrude on it. Bakura can’t spend a whole day lazing around the shop either. Malik has work to do. He needs to focus.

Bakura doesn’t move.

“Get out.”

“I don’t believe I’ve entered the store yet,” Bakura says, motioning to his feet that hover just outside of the doorframe. He wiggles his toes for emphasis, and then holds his hands out for Malik. “See, haven’t even touched your private quarters –”

“You can’t hang around here. Go.” Malik turns his back, hands tightening on the handle of his work backpack. “I have work to do, and you need to go.”

Breezily, Bakura answers, “Well, I’ll just stop by after work then. I have one more thing for you.”

“No thanks,” Malik says, but his words are drowned out by Bakura’s loud, obnoxious goodbye as he heads back around the corner and wherever he’s meant to go. Malik doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to know where Bakura spends his time. It’s probably illegal, anyways.

With a heavy sigh, Malik lets himself fall into the routine. He’s in the garage all day, so he changes into his coveralls and ties his hair back and out of his eyes. In the small office he thumbs through files looking for work that he’s meant to do – menial repairs like changing oil, replacing tires, or altering the wiring of the bikes. There’s an ATV in today too. Malik hasn’t ridden on one of those before, but this one is quite the beast. 

The day ebbs in and out with the work labour. Since Bakura is gone, the minutes seem to move by at a snail’s pace. A miniscule part of Malik longs for Bakura to come back and make time zip by. By his third hour into work, Malik believes he could even settle for some of Bakura’s mischief-making if it only meant the clock would jump ahead an hour or two. 

On his lunch break, he sneaks around outside and sits in the sun. He watches the roads for any sign of Bakura nearby; however, if Bakura is hiding from him, Malik will never see him. Bakura is like a ghost, popping in and out of existence. If Bakura doesn’t want to be seen, he’ll remain invisible as long as he likes. 

Malik cups his cheek in his hand. The day really does drag on without Bakura around. 

He heads back to work after the break, one ear pricked should Bakura come through the back entrance. The only sounds he hears though are the muted mumbles of the customers up front, and they’re no one important. Malik nearly gives up until he hears footsteps behind him, loud elephant clomps that could only belong to one egotistical person. Malik whirls around, expecting to see Bakura –

No one. 

No Bakura.

“Turn around.”

Malik does. Of course Bakura tricked Malik. He always does. However, Malik doesn't have a second to spare before something long and black goes flying towards Malik, and he yanks his hands back and steps away. His feet catch on a wire below and Malik tumbles; he tosses out his hands to catch himself. He hits the ground with a groan, and whatever Bakura has thrown at him lands smack in his lap.

Hastily, Malik pushes it off. “What the hell is that?” he shouts.

Bakura is laughing, the kind that keels him over and pitches his voice so high he sounds like a perky middle-schooler. He peeks through his bangs, still laughing, and chokes out, “The biggest … blackest –”

“What?” 

Malik’s eyes snap down to his lap. He expects some kind of horrible monstrosity to be lying across him, like a waking, albeit embarrassing, nightmare. Yet what’s in his lap is nothing more than an industrial-sized flashlight, the kind a security officer might use on a night shift. It has a long, thick shaft with a sizeable ball on one end. There are just two buttons on the handle. The flashlight is heavy, probably made from a durable metal. 

A flashlight.

Malik brushes it off his lap and tosses it to the ground. “What are you even doing, Bakura?”

“Bringing you a present,” he says. He bends double and laughs once more. “I saw this … and … I thought of you.” He can barely get the words out between gasps, eyes pinched tight.

How does he even answer that? Malik doesn’t. He pushes himself off the floor, dusting off his legs, and glares at Bakura. He’s spent all day waiting for Bakrua to come around, and this is the greeting he gets. Bakura brings him the most phallic-looking flashlight he can? And what is up with the gifts? Where is Bakura getting this? Malik has so many questions to ask, but he knows if he asks even one of them Bakura will just give him a cryptic answer follow by a teasing smile, and Malik wants none of that.

“I don’t want this. Take it back.”

“After all the hard work I did getting this for you?” Bakura’s lips pull down in a pout. “How mean, Malik.”

“Give it away then.”

“But it’s for you.” Bakura picks it up off the ground, twirling it back and forth in his hands. When he catches Malik watching him, he runs his hands up and down the shaft, fingers nimble – and Malik swiftly looks away before his cheeks burn away his skin. Bakura is  _ embarrassing  _ to have around.

“Besides,” Bakura continues, “you forgot your flashlight at home. Take this one to walk home with.”

The words are light and airy, but the meaning is within grasp. Malik swallows. Bakura bought him a light to walk home with. Bakura must know that Malik leaves the lights on in his house, and that Malik is never without light. But his walk home, now in the dark, wintery weather … Bakura has walked him home every day this week. How come it hasn’t seemed so dark before?

Bakura holds the black flashlight out to him. “Touch it.”

“Stop making this weird,” Malik says.

The flashlight drops into his hands. Malik turns it on at once, lips curling into a smile when he sees the beam of light shoot right from the centre. Even in the lit garage, the light is brighter. It’ll illuminate the entire street if Malik wants it too. It’s stronger than the light Bakura made him yesterday too, and the candles, and …

Malik looks up at Bakura. 

“You want me to walk with this in public?” It’s not phallic unless Malik is thinking hard enough, but Bakura holding it in his hands has put some terrible images in his mind.

“Walk home with it.”

“But … the streets are already lit.” He tosses it back and forth in his hands though, chuckling. “Thanks for the weird gift.”

“Use it well.”

“Gross.”

Malik covers his mouth before he laughs too loudly, eyeing Bakura whose shit-eating grin has taken on new dimensions that make him look even sillier.

Bakura glances up at the clock, then points to make sure Malik sees it too. “Five o’clock, chop chop. It’s time to go home.”

“Get outside and wait for me then.”

And Bakura does.


End file.
